Clart
by Olhado
Summary: They will have LAN parties, they will quote B-movies, they will be geeks. Nothing can change that. ForgeWeasel tribute to Readme.txt. Happy Birthday, Nai!


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A/N: This is where I'd usually stick a slash warning (not that I've ever written true slash in the first place -- this is Olhado slash: "Scott, would you like to play badmitton?" "Why, yes, Lance, I'd love to." The end. I just call it slash so the Evowriters can laugh at me). And, you may wonder, especially if you've read Life in the Other Lane and Readme.txt, why a Forge/Weasel _wouldn't_ have a slash warning. I'm too shy to tell you. You'll figure it out so quickly on your own and then you're welcome to scream at me through the review box. If you want the real stuff, do check out Naisumi's Readme.txt or Lyo's Forge and Shindo's Weasel in Life in the Other Lane. This is a paltry imitation in the spirit of birthdays.

It is also slightly, _very_ slightly A/U. I've taken a few chronology liberties. As in, all the events of the first three seasons up to about, I don't know, Self Possessed or something (sans the Poccy stuff, I'm not going to deal with it) have been moved forward a few years. So, consider this just after Self-Possessed, only, Scott's well into college and Kitty's a senior in high school and stuff like that. I've inserted some events that will be referred to that did _not_ happen in the show and neglect some that did. And yadda yadda. Just so you know that _I_ know that Evan is not Scott's age and there aren't too many major physical injuries in Evo and so forth.

Rated PG for double entendre, horrible pick-up lines, grim reminders, Arcade, ambiguity, possible mild violence, possible fluff, and big round rooms.

Weasel

I work the counter at Burger King. I don't have a name badge. Probably because I refused to give my real name. I'm a firm believer in one person keeping my name, maybe two. Myself, and my mom, since I can't think of any realistic way to take it from her. Seeing as she gave it to me.

Everyone else can know me as Weasel. Weasel. I think that's quite sufficient, don't you? This way, you have something to scream at me if I've failed or harmed you in any way possible and that's all that's necessary. Otherwise, you wouldn't have any reason to speak to me by name. Otherwise, I'm part of the crowd. If you want to me for something, you have only to slap my shoulder and demand it, substituting nomenclature with whatever curse or slight comes to mouth. I'll duck my head, mutter something inflammatory, which you'll never hear, and do whatever you say. I'm that malleable. When you're watching me, of course. I'm your average wily weasel. I'll spit-clean your boots and break your windshield as soon as your back is turned.

And that's my theory on employment. It's just a sophisticated form of bullying. You'll put up with all kinds of guff for money. Like the sizzle of plastic burger cheese and the sweat of microwaved buns and the high pitched whine of spoiled kids who want a Big Kid's Meal NOW and the suspicious glances of parents at my empty uniform, wondering whether I'm some kind of convicted felon, working for anonomity rather than pay.

Okay, maybe having Weasel on my name badge wouldn't help.

Some kid streaks palm grease on the counter and gapes up awed at me, alone, parent-less, an independant little brat on his first solo foray into Fast-Food Land.

"Ordering?" I ask, trying to keep my voice cheerfully vapid.

"Harry . . . Potter . . . " he gasps.

Third time this week. "Sorry, kid, no scar. Are you --"

He squints at my hairline. "I bet you're hiding it with Foundation."

I let my face follow its impulses and scowl dangerously. "Isn't Harry Potter usually at Hogwarts at this time of year?"

"You snuck out! You always sneak out!"

Reason never works with these kids. Oh, yeah, Harry Potter sneaks out for the sole purpose of catering to the celebrity stalker desires of Burger King patrons. "No, but you're almost there. I was expelled for playing Time Warp and killing John Lennon somehow in the process -- ready to _order?_"

The kid's escatic eye glaze hasn't slipped. He nods enthusiastically. "I'll take a box of Bertie Botts, a bottle of Butter Beer, and a Chocolate Frog."

"You mean," I snarl, "a chicken nuggets Big Kids meal, complete with small Pepsi and toy, right?"

The kid winks conspiratorily. "Whatever you say, Harry."

I jab in the order with a rigid finger. I might as well not bother letting my mood show. Stupid fanatics always draw me in some kind of magic and benevolent aura. I'd have to wire the counter to explode . . . no, they'd probably think that was _wicked_. Cool, that is.

The door swing-dings open and a squatly blond and familiar figure comes shuffling in. No, shuffling is too broad, unspecific, inaccurate due to over-generalization. It's more of a duck shuffle. Knees askew, flat-footing with heels wide apart, back hunched until his shoulders sit on top of his ears. 

"Hey, Arcade." He wanted me to call him "Arcade" as soon as he learned my name was "Weasel." Thought it was some kind of nifty-keen secret-nerd-club thing and wanted to get in on it. Disappointed he was when he learned that Weasel was the sole and only and always to remain so member of the Weasel club, but he still insists on being Arcade (even if he doesn't go as far as I do -- his school records _do_ contain his real name. I just can't remember it at the moment).

"Weasel," he says, squared-off Coke bottle glasses glinting eagerly.

I smile. Anything to distract me from worshipful kid is welcome here. "What? Get _another_ Warcraft expansion pack or what?"

He rubs his hands together. "Better. Oooh, much better."

"You reprogrammed Age of Empires to include the Oompah Loompas?"

"You're thinking kid stuff, Weasel! I'm thinking high tech, so high tech it'll wire your brain with metal synapses and . . . "

I lean on my hand, tapping my fingers discreetly behind the cash register. He'll peter out eventually.

When his mouth stops moving, I ask.

"So, what _are_ you so happy about, then?"

"Kitty's inviting me over!" He jumps up and down, trying to pummel the ceiling.

This doesn't follow.

"You're this excited over a _girl?_ Since when is _that_ high tech, man?"

"It's not the _girl_, it's where she lives! I got to go to a party there a couple of years ago. And, man, I found the sweetest game interface. I'm not talking computers, I'm not talking consoles, I'm talking about holograms, _multi-screen holograms_."

"Pretty cool."

"_Pretty_ cool?? You don't got any _idea_. No kidding, I lost _consciousness, _it was so intense."

"Uh huh."

"Dude, I'm this serious." He puts his hands out a foot apart to indicate the seriousness. "The. Best."

"You say this was a couple of years ago?"

"Yeah." Something like chagrin suddenly passes over his face. "I kinda got in trouble."

"Private game?"

"I _guess_. I mean, they were going all weird and . . . I dunno, _men-in-black_ on me! Like, 'what did you see' and . . . the room it was in, it was _giant_, it was this giant _sphere_ and, hey, maybe I _was_ playing some kind of secret government training game . . . or maybe they just wanted to know why the house was trashed. I was the only party-goer that hadn't split . . . "

"Mmm hmmm. Well, I hope you enjoy yourself." While I was chatting, some back-counter ghost brought the kid his food. He's finally withdrawn to a table, although he's still staring at me.

"Weasel, you gotta come, too."

"I'm invited?"

"Well . . . no. But Kitty said she's not going to let me _near_ anything electronic." His lower lip pushes out into a pout. "You're really really good with computers, Weasel, you know I've _always_ said it. I told her you were coming. I figure you could just . . . "

"You told her what?"

"I told her you were coming! That you were this _terrific_ friend of mine and, okay, I told her that you really liked her-but-were-too-shy-to-admit-it, okay."

My hand finds the center of my forehead and rests there. I count to ten. 

"All . . . right. Arcade. Tell me why, assuming you're somewhere _near_ your right mind, you thought I'd ever agree to this?"

"_Progress_, Weasel, _progress!_ You won't have to hang out with Kitty. You'll be so desperately shy that you'll sneak off and find somewhere to hide, right?"  


"But you actually want me to find this spherical room of yours."

"Uh huh! And download the game and figure out the interface. You're _genius_, Weasel. You could build a copy and create about fifty compatible programs and . . . "

Some part of me admits curiousity.

"How tight's the security?"

"Once you get past the gates, _nothing_. At least, nothing that hackers of _our_ caliber can't manage."

I should probably mention that the later parts of this exchange are being conducted in near whispers, a special geek tone reserved for when the unitiated and possibly law abiding citizen may be present.

"How much 'trouble' did you get in last time? And how were you caught?"

"Oh, just the sort of 'don't break into locked areas' kind of trouble. No cops. Not even a phone call to my mom. And I was _only_ caught because the game really _did_ knock me out."

"Dangerous."

Strangely appealing.

"So you're in? Please?"

"Okay."

"Yes!" Arm pump. "Stay here after work. Kitty's coming to pick you up 7:30 ish."

"I'll be here then."

Second arm pump, a wave, and Arcade duck-walks out the door. 

Harry-Potter-lover is still watching me.

Looks like I'll have another cold burger to smuggle back into the kitchen area when he leaves.

Kitty's a nice girl, I guess. Too high pitched and chatty, but nice. Actually tries to engage me in conversation. I'd be more social, but I'm supposed to be pulling the painfully bashful tact, so I answer everything with nervous-half syllables and ingratiating, wide grins. Please love me, I'm just a spaz. Her terribly understanding and gentle smiles tell me the ruse is working perfectly. Arcade, despite being a social pariah that only do-gooders touch and the only nerd I know who _has_ a pocket protector, isn't playing his role too badly either.

"Oh, just wait until you get to _know_ Weasel -- talk your _ear_ off."

The gates swing open smoothly as Kitty drives up, probably automated. Attuned to sensors placed under Kitty's bumper, maybe? Very high tech indeed.

I wait for both Kitty and Arcade to be out and a few steps onto the lawn before tugging the door open. Perfect. They've already looked back to make sure I'm all right and following. I give a twitchy wave, grin again, and hop clumsily down. Kitty turns to Arcade, probably expressing her concern and Arcade probably says something about how I'm always like this, initially, and I hobble after them, hands deep in my pockets. I make sure my mouth is working. I'm actually singing "I am a Walrus," but I figure Kitty will interpret my seizured lips in whatever pitying way she wants.

This system in place, it's no trouble at all to lose them. My goodness, there are so many _corners_ in the Institute. And, gasp, walls! And halls! And windows, why, I've never seen so many windows!

I make it a point to stare, transfixed with wonderment, at every light fixture, wall hanging, and picture that comes within five feet of my person. Then I'll take two steps as if finally satiated with every detail of this particular iradescent bulb, pause uncertainly, then return to stare at it again. I thought I saw a smudge! 

Works like a charm. I've been doing this sort of thing since I was three. Earned me a reputation as an idiot in grade school, but the benefits far far outweighed the social detriments. Who would sacrifice being absolutely alone and unobserved in any building with any possible oppurtunity for exploration for a fleeting set of elementary school-style relationships?

And Arcade, silly incoherent creature as he is . . . I can still understand why he'd like to browse this particular piece of archetecture without supervision.

There _is_ no top proper to the window frames. Instead, there are two sheets of metal, pressed tightly against each other but certainly not welded. Poised to descend on command.

"Fortress," I mutter to myself. There are tens and twenties of loose panels on the walls, placed over my head, out of reach. From a certain angle, I can see the lines -- can mark exactly where some extra light fixture, camera, or, sure, weapon of mass destruction would shove its way out. Oh, sure, the panels are well made. Most people wouldn't pick them out until it became completely irrelevant, but I have an eye for these kinda things.

"Well, well." There are more obvious panels lower down, larger and marked by steel covers. They remind me of giant breaker boxes -- essential-looking and not bothering to hide it. They probably control the lights or heating or something mundane like that.

What I really need to access is the brains of this monster, or at least a pituitary gland or something. We're still wandering around the epidermis here.

If I were an exceptionally paranoid agency still masquerading as a prep school, where would I put the guts of my operation?

Why, in the basement, of course! Honestly, duh.

Most of the stairs seems to lead upwards and, in my search, I'll occasionally hear some scattered footsteps and voices and have to duck behind some curtains or sofas or whatever comes to hand (not very James Bond, no, but Burger King doesn't keep espionage supplies in its spare closets).

It's probably pure luck I find the elevator. 

That's the problem with these people, they're too clean. If they'd buried this elevator in clutter (holographic clutter, even!) or stuck in a storage room somewhere, it'd take me that much longer to find it and some brat might have located me by then.

Still . . . 

I press the down button gingerly, waiting for an alarm to go off and a SWAT team to come melting out of the walls. Instead, the elevator dings and opens. Anti-climactic.

The inside of the elevator is a different matter.

There _should_ be a city ordinance against having this many floors underground.

"_Fifty?_" I hiss under my breath.

I jab thirty-eight because I feel like it. The elevator shuts and the descent begins. A _thirty-eight floor descent_. 

But, yeah, Arcade was right. The security here's about as tight as a baby's hanky, if _that_ good.

A little weird for a fortress compound. And how.

The doors open on darkness. Not whole-inky-black-dripping-with-void darkness. There's a greying edge of light down to my left and an occasional orange-ous flare somewhere between me and the grey, concurrent with the sound of something being soldered nearby. 

I hesistate, then step out of the elevator. This does not, I admit, look like anything Arcade would have gone exploring. There is no giant round rooms or easily handled technology, let alone lighting-according-to-Workers'-Safety-Standards. I toe carefully forward until I find empty space. A quick tilt of my foot verifies the existence of stairs. I reach out for a balance point and, thankfully, there is a wall to my right, albeit not one to my left.

So Bat Cave. All it needs is the frantic fluttering of a thousand wings and wild spurts of hungry chittering.

I take the stairs carefully, one at a time, trying to keep my steps absolutely quiet. I have no idea where the soldering-guy is and I suppose it makes a certain sense that if he's between me and the light, he's working on something _on_ the stairs, in which case, I probably won't be able to sneak around him, but maybe there's platforms jutting out here and there, acting as workspace. Yeah. 

And then, the soldering hiss gets more pronounced, and the red light quite immenent, lighting the edges of the stairs, but I can't tell where it's coming from. Certainly not on the stairs ahead of me, or anywhere ahead of me at all. At this point, I _would_ be able to see the person soldering, if only as a vague silhouette. Maybe I missed something structural, like a walkway above --

A face pops out of nowhere. "Boo."

I was ready for something like that. I promise I was! My knees, however, weren't. Neither were my vocal chords, because they're going "YAAAH!" at the top of my lungs simultaneous with my legs buckling together and I _know_ I'm in serious crap.

Fortunately, the face owns a hand somewhere and that hand catches the front of my shirt before I can quite go plummeting to my death or dismemberment. My arms flail in two concentric circles before I remind them firmly that I'm no longer falling, so stop those shenanigans, please. My feet find level stair in another moment and I'm standing straight enough that my head stops spinning and the hand laxes slightly on my shirt.

"All right?"

"What the _crap_ do you think --?"

It lets go. "All right."

I finally look up.

There's this guy clinging to the ceiling like a spider. At least, he is from the waist down. The waist up is leaning upside down. His head is just above mine. One hand is holding a half-lighted blowtorch well to the left. It spews sparks that flicker in a languid stream down into the darkness. The other hand starts waving genially.

"Hey there."

"What are you --"

He flicks off the blowtorch, claps once, and the lights come on. I blink. The walls sparkle wanly with machinery. Cords and panels and robotic arms line everything except the stairs. The ceiling is particularly thick with the stuff and our guy is bound to his work by a simple harness, which he's now trying to struggle out of. He drops the blow torch nonchalantly -- which clatters down the stairs until I can't hear it any more.

"Careless way to treat equipment."

"Pah, what's a few bucks here and there?" he mutters. He wriggled far enough that he's now hanging precariously by his knees. Since he's not exactly hanging over a featherbed . . .

"That's a good way to crack something open, you know."

"Psssssch." He drops. I start. But he lands impossibly on his hands, legs curved up over his back in a particularly bad handstand. "See? Nothing to it." And he leaps upright in the opposite direction. If the world made any sense, he'd miss and fall off the left side. But no, he ends quite steady on his feet, arms spread out, welcoming applause.

I don't give it. "Yeah. You're a lucky boy. Okay, so on a regular basis, you use a blowtorch without any kind of safety equipment, not even _goggles_, work in the dark, do flips out of ceiling harnesses . . . and you're still alive _and _employed? Wow-y."

He puts his hand over his heart. "I am the child of Fortune and the page boy of Bosses Who Always Look the Other Way. I am also a horrible show-off. And what, pray tell, are you? For I am most lonely here in my sanctum and so few young adventurers survive the 'boo.' You must be something _special_."

Is he _flirting_ with me? "I'm a nun. What_ is_ this place?"

"None of your business," the guy hums.

"You're some kind of government brat, aren't you?" I say, looking over the side of the stairs. The power bill to keep this much machinery going must be intense.

"Now, why would a nice young nun ask me something like that? That's confidential. I'll have to see some high level I.D. to answer any question other than 'Are you available, hon?'"

"If it's that confidential, you _should_ have at least an elevator lock to keep people out. Any friend of your prep school kids could waltz down here like I just did."

"Oh me, but we _do_ have a lock," guy gasps, slapping the side of his face. "You must be some kind of _mutant_ to pass right through it. Whatever can I do?"

Patience. At. End. "Look, if you're trying to get at something, I'd like --"

His hand is suddenly very hard on my elbow. "All right. Here's it straight. You. Are. Trespassing. This is not your house. I'm sure it does not in any way _resemble_ your house. It also does not resemble a museum, a hardware shop, a gaming zone, or an amusement park. Therefore, _I_ ask all the questions and you keep your snitty little comments about security to yourself, because you are in big doo-doo."

It's an effort not to put some emphatically sharpened fingernails in his arm. So, what, he's desperate_ and_ bipolar? 

"O-okay. So is this stair your interrogation area, then?"

"That's upstairs. Walk carefully. Do not try to break my ankle as we return to the elevator, because I will go off the side and I _will_ pull you with me."

Honestly, I'm not an idiot. He steps, I step. The stairs are much easier when there's more than a cat's eye of light. We're at the landing without further chatter or mishap. I'm quite proud of him. He was quiet enough that I could _almost_ convince myself he wasn't there.

"Ding ding, going up!" he chirps unnecessarily as the elevator responds to his button-prod and opens. We enter. This is exciting.

"Just so you know, I'm expecting minimal bars and rats, and none of that too-bright lamp stuff. I've seen enough Law and Order and that junk just doesn't impress me any more."

"Cultured child, you have no idea what you're in for, what you're messing with, what dark and horrible fate awaits you outside this door."

Yeah, yeah. "You're going to call my parents, aren't you?"

"Pssschah. Too fourth grade, honey."

Another impulse to drive in the fingernails. "I'm this close to suing harrassment."

"Who's intruding where?"

"If you don't stop addressing me like something you're about to play with . . . "

"And how, pray tell, do you know how I address something I'm about to play with?"

"I've known enough . . . "

"I address things I'm about to play with as such. 'Oh, great marmaladed creature of pixeled strength and steeled soul, I hereby apologize in advance for quite possibly having so much fun that I forget my limits and turn you into a heap of useless slag.' It's a Cheyenne thing."

"No, it's not."

"You presume to know how I play with things and now you presume to understand my culture? How dare you!"

"I'm getting a little tired of . . . "

"You'd better watch your mouth or I'll turn you into a toad with my mystic powers."

"Oh, come o--"

The elevator doors open. The guy smiles and leads me a little roughly back onto the first floor. "Ah hah! Here we are. Lovely, lovely."

"You _are_ going to call my parents," I grumble. A well-windowed foyer-of-a-house is no place to interrogate anyone.

"Why, never! Come on." Pulls me by my arm down a familiar route -- yes, it's familiar to me, because it's the blatantly obvious route I took from the front door to the elevator.

And, indeed, we end up at the front doors. Guy releases me and wipes his hands together. 

"Thar we go. Yer goin' out the way ye came in. We's got the same polocy for wasps and spiders. Catch 'em in a box and let 'em _freee_."

"I can't walk home," I say bluntly. "Kitty brought me here in her car."

His face falls a little. "Oh, really, now. _How_ far away can your house be?"

"Twenty miles. I guess I _could_ walk. My parents wouldn't mind so _very_ much if I came home tomorrow morning, starving and miserable. Perhaps we'd better just call them, huh? Get it over with."

His brow furrows. "Oh, _right_, you're Kitty's friend."

"Acquaintance."

"Obviously _far_ away from Kitty, whatever you are." He scratches the back of his head. "Are there any other little munchkin-Kitty-acquaintances wandering around the mansion I should know about?"

"Arcade's the main one invited. He's with Kitty."

"O-oh, _Arcade_." The guy nods knowledgeably. "I've heard all sorts of . . . stories about Arcade. In that case, you can just sit tight with _me_, oh boy, until Kitty feels like taking dear Arcade home. How does that sound?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'sitting tight,'" I grate ever-so-slightly.

He rolls his eyes. "Paranoid much? Okay. I will sit _here_ and you will sit_ there _and, see, there's plenty of room between us for you to pull out a concealed weapon if your choice should I start feeling frisky."

I wait for him to sit down first before I sit on my indicated couch. I fold my arms and slouch appropriately. Hopefully, Kitty will get bored with Arcade quickly.

"You know, we don't just have to _sit_ here," the guy says, obviously having a shorter attention span than I do. The back of his hand is banging idly on his knee.

"Uh huh. Feel like a tango?"

"_Honestly_, what do you think I am?"

"Nothing I can mention in even a semi-public place."

"Sheesh. All ri-ight, let's start over. What do you think about introductions? Do you like introductions, do you like names?"

"Not especially." 

"Let's _pretend_ you like them for a second. Let's have this careful hypothesis that you don't actually _mind_ them and they'd be better than staring at my knee cap (yes, I did notice you were staring at my knee cap, I won't ask why), and throw out a few. Hi. Hello. My name's Forge."

"What kind of a name is that?" As long as I can avoid giving out my alias, I won't look like a hypocrite. And this ding-dong seems to like to talk. "Sounds like the kind of nomiker you'd give to an ex-con."

He points to his forehead. "Sharp. Sharp you are. I'm the best forger in the nation, wanted in forty-nine states. I traded my skills to Xavier for anonomity. Where do you think he gets the money for all this junk, huh?"

Another fellow hired without pay. Maybe it comes with having an alias. La-ti-da. "Wow. And I would think that'd be classified information."

"Tell anybody and my invisible alien bodyguards will kill you in your sleep."

"My lips are sealed," I say wearily. Come on, Kitty. Get sick of Caddy already.

"Hopefully not so sealed you can't fulfill _your_ part of this deep and personal sharing. What's _your_ name?"

"24601," I rattle off, examining my nails. Yep, still sharp.

"And here I was thinking it was X-23."

I glance up. "What?"

"Never mind. A joke so inside that you have to perform its autopsy before you get it."

"You weren't making a reference to THX- . . . all right, can't remember the number, but it was an early Lucas flick, I believe. If you were making a reference to _that_, it fell very flat indeed."

"I wasn't, actually. And I said the joke was 'inside,' not 'obscurely esoteric to the point of sheer geekery.'"

"It's not _that_ obscure," I scoff. "Lucus made it. It's not that obscure."

"So saith one who likely peruses Sci-fi Weekly and assumes everything therein is common knowledge. Next, you'll be telling me that the entire student body can recite the code-names of the X-Men in perfect sychronization."

"They probably could. You'd have to keep your head under five layers of pillows not to know _everything_ about our kid mutants at this point. I still don't get why you guys are so paranoid about it."

"About what?"

"About . . . being you!" I wave a hand at the windows. "Steel lined walls, fifty underground floors, enough tech to blow the deficit several hundred meters _further_ into the ground. But, yo, funny thing is I can still walk wherever I want without being touched. So what's the point? You're not hiding, you're not defending."

"We like guns," he says idly.

"Huh?"

"Lots of big guns."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Men like guns?"

"I'm not following what the crap this has to do with my point."

"Okay, Xavier is male, right? So he likes guns. He sublimates his desire for guns into a desire for the safety of his students. So he builds all this techie junk and he feels just swell about himself. He feels secure in his masculinity."

"Uh . . . huh."

"Really, it's true. I'm his handyman _and_ his psychologist. Oh, and that security . . . " He shrugs. "He's a telepath, for goodness sakes. He knew what you were doing before you did and sent you down to my floor so I could handle it. Neato, huh?"

"Kept me away from all those weapons you're supposed to have stashed here, too, I see."

"Media hyped that one way up. Those weapons are stationary. Can't pop you unless you're not only somewhere you're not supposed to be, but someone has deliberately activated them to nuke you. Not likely while Xavier's watching."

"Unless he _wanted_ to nuke you."

"You have any idea what would happen if an X-Man actually killed someone?" Forge shakes his head. "We wouldn't be sitting here high and cushy, let me tell you. We like high and cushy. So we don't go around randomly slaughtering people. We got nothing to hide."

"Except weapons and whatever you were working on down there."

He laughs. "I wasn't working on anything! Seriously, all that junk is just that, junk. It's my play room. A really big, expensive play room. Basically, I put together random chips and wires and sometimes something useful comes out of it. Most of the time, not. There's nothing secret about it."

"You just don't want sweet little kiddies like myself wandering haphazard then?" I ask, batting my eyelashes.

"Hey, you slip and fall and crack your head open and we _shouldn't_ be liable, since you'd be trespassing, but the rules are always so bendable for mutants."

"You seemed to enjoy freaking me out fit to crack my head open earlier."

"I had _that_ under control. Besides, I could claim personal responsibility for that one. And most lawyers wouldn't bother suing a no-income no-account like me. Stick me in jail maybe, but, hey."

"Let me guess, you have a really _useful_ mutant power for getting out of enclosed areas, a-la Kitty."

"Actually . . . " and here, his expression turns defensive, almost clenching in its intensity. "I'm not a mutant."

"Really."

"No, I'm not."

"Yet you live in the basement in a school for mutants."

"I'm special."

And he's going bipolar on me again. Wow, what a bite in that voice. "O-okay, if we're going to be all _sensitive_ all of a sudden."

His eyes lighten. "What's your name?"

Fine. "Weasel."

Forge chuckles. "Right. I won't ask again."

"No, that's my name. As far as Forge is yours."

"I doubt that one. But all right. Weasel. Forge."

I glance toward the stairs. "You know, it's dumb. But I don't think Arcade quite realizes Kitty's a mutant."

"Easier not to think about it."

"I still don't see what the big deal is."

He raises an eyebrow. "Really."

"Yeah, really. I'd _rather_ be a mutant, personally. Oh, boo hoo, I can do something that normal people can't. I can _fly_. I'm such a freak. What's the big deal?"

"It's not always such a big deal," he hedges, "but I do know a couple of mutants who would give their right arms to be human."

"Multiple right arms?"

"I meant _arm_, singular. Pardon."

The longer the converation gets, the more subdued Forge becomes. I might be on to something here. "Yeah, yeah, grass is always greener and all that jazz. It's not like there's a big uproar any more. Initially, sure. You guys had weapons coming out of the bushes" (a brief and definitely wicked smile there. Dear, dear) "big rooms nobody understood, your brother mutants over in that slimy house by the school, well, they were recovering giant boxers from the closets. The general 'freak' alarm was going off in all the neighborhoods of the nation. People aren't rational when first confronted by anomoly, but then they get over it. It's commonplace. It's whatever. As long as you don't blow up Bayville again, only a few super-snits are going to care or notice you even exist. Seriously. Arcade was more existed about that big round room interface you have stashed than anything about mutants."

"Big round room interface?" Like I said, more subdued. _I'm_ doing all of the talking.

"Some kind of holographic Gameboy he picked up."

"Oh man." He edges his face half into his hand, but he's not even _trying_ to hide a grin. "That's . . . horrible."

"Now what?"

"Never mind." Snicker snicker. "It's not like I hadn't heard about his messing around anyway. He's a crazy kid, your Arcade. . . . Arcade. Have the X-Men started a trend here or what?"

"I've been Weasel since I was five."

"Oh, good." He leans forward, steepling his fingers in a manner that strikes me as vaguely out of character. Then his voice deepens and I know it's intentional. "So, Weasel, whilst we wait, my professional dignity demands I probe deeply into your psyche and learn why, indeed, why, you would name yourself after a mustelid that draws some disgust from the general populace."

"Give me a break. Yo, if you're bored, we can play Twenty Questions."

"But this is so much more fun!" he squeaks, falsetto, and then back into the deep voice. "Now, Weasel, you might not understand the implications of your alias, but I, having far far, oh, infinitely far more experience with the human mind than you can ever ever even _begin_ to comprehend, know that your mustelid psuedonym is a foil for subconscious insecurities and self-doubts that hail from your early childhood."

"Stuff it up your left nostril, _Forge_. What about your insecurities --" Yes, I know it's a game. I'm playing along, see!

He waggles a finger. "Now, now. Hostility is _highly_ inappropriate in this situation. I know, as surely as I can recognize the mole on the back of my wrist as my own, that your nomiker hails directly from this hostility. If only I can figure out wherein the hostility lies, what dark little conflict it embodies, I will know the secret of your mind, and, thusly, the universe. Why not?"

"My only insecurity spurs from the discrepency between my fist and your glass jaw, bucko."

"Tsk, tsk! I do not know what to _do_ with such hostility!" He gets to his feet, one finger tapping his chin thoughtfully. His eyes rove over me critically, which I do not quite like. "Ah hah! I have found the source!" The finger jabs downward toward my waist. I color without meaning to, irritation mounting. "You are _wearing_ a belt from Hot Topic."

Oh. "And how would _you_ know?" 

"I took a certain delicate young Goth girl shopping a few times. I have a memory like a glove, choose your brand. But, _yes_, that is a belt from Hot Topic."

"No, it's not."

"Receipt?" He waggles his fingers toward his palm. "I want proof."

"It's _from_ Walmart."

"But _exported_ from Hot Topic, eh?"

I scowl. "What does this have to do with your diagnosis, sir, my sir?"

"_Everything, _my sweet, I mean, my dear and completely removed from myself and whatever hormones or desires I may or may not have patient, ah hah, it does have everything to do with it. For the belt is at discrepency with your other garb! May I take inventory? Ah, yes. Thick, round, black-rimmed glasses, tight-cropped hair style, collared shirt with undecipherable logo (maybe something crude in Japanese put through several Photoshop filters?), baggy pants in fair shape. In short, your outfit is androgynous, vaguely sullen, the sort of thing that kids-in-the-back-of-the-room wear while they play poker on their graphing calculators. And then . . . the _belt_. The _belt_. Trendy, even hip, with the mandatory double-line of metal ridged holes, it just screams 'I might _mostly_ look like this, but there's a little itty bitty part of me that wants to be something else!'"

"And that would be . . . " I prompt, seething. Just a little. I'm sure he's just "messing with me." 

"You want to be a _weasel!_ The end!" He bows.

O-okay. After a long and vaguely uncomfortable pause, I clap. It's a wan sort of golf clap, but it is a clap. I'm not quite sure what he wants me to do and I didn't entirely appreciate the clothes talk, in case you didn't notice. It's not that I care anything about styles or trends -- I grab what I like. A chat like that comes awfully close to accusing me of being one of those bandwagon punk/goths/what-have-you. Which some dude I've known for half an hour had better keep his mouth shut on. (And I use a _laptop, _not a _graphing calculator_. And I play _Fallout._)

Wait.

"My turn," I say, all mildness, mimicing an airy, innocent timbre of fair play. Eye for an eye . . . oops, tee hee! I mean, your observation for mine, sweetie.

"Now why would a fellow like you call himself Forge?"

"Ah ah ah!" He waves a hand dismissively. "It's my _given_ name."

I mime scribbling something in a notebook. "Mmmm hmmm. Delusional."

"I'd hand you my birth certificate if I had it! Honest I would, doctor!"

"In absense of a birth certificate, we'll have to go with the evidence at hand. Hmmmm." I get to my feet and begin pacing back and forth before my subject, giving him the same visual run-over he was giving me. Pah, see how you like it! Only . . . he-ey, no, that part of my brain is now disconnected. Please try again later.

"I say," and I mime the scribbling again, "_Definite_ compensation problems . . . "

"Bu-but, compensation for what?"

"So _many_ things to list." I tilt my head back dramatically, squinting my eyes as if I'd just been struck by a headache from heaven. "One, you're short. We _all_ know about short men. I got my _minor_ in the psychological difficulties of short men. You're disadvantaged from the start, you know."

He sighs and nods tragically. 

"_Two_, the seventies might be coming back, but they're not _that_ back. Yellow-blue tie-dye-tee and olive green jacket with rhinestone buttons are honestly asking too much of most eyes. You will give young children aneurisms. And purple pants are _bad_. Very _bad._ And _this_ . . ." I reach over him and snatch at his necklace, fingernail catching conveniently on the faux-silver peace sign proper, "is so passe . . . "

"Like, some _lesbian_ your _friend _is, Arcade."

Oops. Forge snicks a sly smile up at me as I get to stare, marginally embarressed in a "caught in some kind of illicit act or something that I wasn't actually doing" way at Kitty, wondering whether to be really ticked or not. I drop the necklace and back away from the stupid guy.

Kitty is flashing me the kind of look you can read two ways. One. I invite you to my house without even a background check, save for the information that Caddy hinted that you were a y'know and really liked me and I was flattered and was quite willing to spend some quality bonding time with you. And _then_ you go and sneak off to seduce the horribly dressed handyman? You are a _very bad person_. Two. Exactly the same, save with a slight addendum. I can, like, tell all my friends this and it will be a _very_ good story. Hmmm.

"Arcade," I groan, directing my much-muted-in-comparison-to-what-I-actually-feel ire toward Mr. Duck-walk, who's trying not to meet my eyes. He _might_ be laughing. This is not good for my mood. "How many times do I have to tell you? It's 'nun,' not 'lesbian.' I can't imagine how you could mix that up. The first has _one_ sylabble, the second has _three_."

Arcade shrugs, then apparently can't control himself and starts sputtering. "Pbbbbbbt, hee hee hee hee . . . " And he clamps both hands over his mouth in an effort to contain himself and avoid my wrath later.

Kitty is tapping her foot. "I _also _thought you were supposed to be _desperately shy_."

"I was a moment ago. But I found my true love and my tongue has been unlocked." I send Forge a very definite "Don't get any ideas" glare that he'd have to be blind to misinterpret.

He smirks.

"Oooooh, I see. Well, I think it's about time for _dinner_, isn't it, _Forge?_" Apparently he is _also_ a guilty party. So nicey to know I'm not alone.

The smirk straightens and Forge faces Kitty with an impassive mask. "Ah, perhaps. Would you like me to drive Miss Weasel home, then?"

Arcade roars. Kitty's face goes slightly livid, probably more with frustration than rage. 

"I think Scott would be safer. No offense, _Forge_, but everyone knows you're a bit prone to _distraction_."

Arcade is clutching his stomach at this point. Considering that even I, I, of such control, am sniggering albeit so discreetly, it's amazing that Forge is retaining a straight face.

"You yourself will not accompany Miss Weasel and Mr. Arcade home? I was of the impression that you drove them here and although I can understand milady's weariness after such a long time upstairs where it is ill-favored and drafty, perhaps . . . "

"Oooh, it's _always _useless talking to you. I'm getting Scott."

She stomps off and Arcade slowly pulls himself together. It gets quiet. Forge turns to me, inclining himself in a butler's salute. 

"Would milady permit me to kiss her hand before she departs?" he asks, still absolutely formal voice, but with a betraying half-malicious spark in his eyes.

"Only if sir would enjoy an elbow in the gut."

"Very well, milady. Perhaps next time." He straightens, winks once at Arcade for no reason I can fathom, and strolls out whistling, about a second before a red-spectacled kid I think I do remember from the news as Scott comes flustering in, trying to hold a disintegrating notebook together and locate us at the same time.

"Um, right, which one of you is the weasel and which one is the arcade?"

Blink, blink.

"Darn it. Stupid glasses fogged up again. Hey _JEAN_, can _you_ drive these guys home?"

Maybe walking isn't such a bad idea.


End file.
